Teacherous
by My Leather Couch
Summary: We know that Snape is one to obsess. Should it be that hard to imagine him doing so over the Slytherin princess? SSPP. Vocal fetishes and lots of smoking
1. Teacherous

**A/N: Yeah . . . so I noticed there weren't many stories for the Severus/Pansy ship, and I wanted to try something new. . . as you can tell, the writing's not really my usual style, but it seemed to fit with Snape's personality (i know it's going to sound awkward in a few places; deal with it or correct me). Anyway, it's just a short fic, gonna be somewhere between 2 and 4 chapters. R&R**

* * *

_1. Teacherous _

"Professor."

There it was, that voice; quiet, so quiet and hesitant to speak up in the frightened silence of his classroom. Hesitant, because everyone around her held their breath with rapturous repose. In such a distinct stillness it was impossible for him _not _to hear her; but it was not yet the voice he wanted to hear, that special voice reserved for impassioned, urgent murmurings, for the recitation of cruel words, and, more recently, for his classroom.

So he ignored her. He kept his back turned, fingers flying deftly over the labels of the numerous ingredients on his shelves, searching for something that didn't exist quite yet. He waited.

Cautiously, she gave a little cough.

With his back still turned to her, Severus Snape allowed himself a cruel curl of the lip, sneering. A cough? Was that supposed to get his attention? Oh, no; she would have to do much more than that. This little psychosomatic game could hardly be won so easily.

No. She would have to speak. She would have to use that _particular _voice. Nothing less. Otherwise, she wasn't worth the attention.

Giving a tiny, self-satisfied nod of the head, he let his fingers wander. Truthfully, if someone were to describe to him Pansy Parkinson's voice, they would not have compared it to honey. They would not have said it was as sonorous as a lark's call on a morning in spring, nor would they compare it to the sweetness of silver bells. They would say, very bluntly, very unapologetically, that when the girl opened her mouth to speak, she simpered. Not "crooned" or even "wheedled"— _"simpered"_. She whined adoringly, cattily. It was done, really, for the benefit of others: for Draco, (the prestigious and well-crafted ex-boyfriend) so that he could feel imperious in her presence; for her blood-thirsty posse, so that she might seem to them a deceptively powerful ringleader for their sadistic schemes; for everyone else, so that they may find yet another reason to despise her. And as long as she gave them these tokens, no one was going to say anything different about her. It was that simple. Her simple disguise. It was that manner— so blatantly false, so outrageously poor a mask it was a wonder anyone believed it— that allowed her to maintain her status. It gave her a special place in everyone's book, a character trait they tucked away, cataloged, and cemented into their minds; they used it as a quick reference, a way to sum her up, and she was comfortable letting them do so. This mask-voice was kept in place at all times.

Except in the presence of older men.

Having been forced to attend several of the most recent Malfoy family soirees, Alexander had gotten his hands on a large amount of time during which to observe this. And, through a study, he found not only did her voice have a taste for older men, it had _in _older men as well— a very exquisite taste, too. If she was forced to converse with the intellectually challenged lackeys of Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe or Goyle Sr. (though "converse" was, perhaps, too educated a term for their mode of interaction) she maintained with an impossibly radiant pride that adoring whine. However, when standing next to the wealthy and notorious Rudolphus Lestrange, her voice changed entirely. It thickened, smoothed its intangible body into something goddess-like. Junoesque. It coated itself with a rich layer of bittersweetness, a dessert so expressly forbidden it might as well have been an apple from the Tree of Knowledge.

And, when Narcissa was entertaining guests and Draco was no where to be found, Miss Parkinson took the opportunity to slink over to Lucius; it was there, reveling in the partial anonymity of the party that they both retreated into a world of intrinsic banter. She might sneak up behind him, casually lean close and whisper into his ear; he would then shoot back a stoic reply from those lips, thin but strangely enigmatic, without turning to her. By this time Severus would manage to be within six feet of them, close enough to hear the overture before the pauses gave way to real conversation. And theirs was an opera in a private language, secret and silky. Lucius Malfoy purred sensually as they danced or meandered about. And, when Miss Parkinson answered him back, her voice was the most delectable of dark chocolates, let to bake in the sun and filled with caramelized ambrosia.

Her voice had a preference for older men: older, attractive, married men— which did little to explain why, lately, he found himself on the receiving end of it with increasing frequency.

Behind him, Pansy Parkinson's petit mouth gave a tiny sigh.

And it was here that class let out at last. Having been jarred by the onset of one of his infamous moods, some of the students were so eager to get out that they were on their feet even before the bell rang; though he didn't bother to call them on it, he knew that some had been craning around to watch the clock, others around them counting down the seconds by heart from their own internal one. There was a resounding scuff of wooden chair legs on high-gloss linoleum floor; the open door let in the rushing sound of students filtering through the hallways, though it was only a matter of seconds before the room itself was entirely silent.

All the students were gone. Only Miss Parkinson remained.

And it was then, as the door closed and cut off the outside sounds, that she dropped the dim guise and let her voice carry over to him:—

"_Professor Snape."_

His fingers halted. Ah. There it was.

_That _voice.

He lowered his hands and turned to face her.

Her gaze was more or less unwavering, blue-brown eyes infused with enough gall to look half-impatient. Her hair, cut short to reveal her long neck, framed a face that at a younger age had been called cute, now with an acquired underlying potential for cruelty. A single strand of inky hair had curled upwards to touch the corner of her mouth, and Severus resisted the urge to brush it away.

"Yes?" he drawled.

Her almond eyes narrowed a fraction and she swiped that tantalizing strand away from her mouth.

Severus' fingers curled.

"I have to talk to you about my test, Professor."

A test. The way she said it, she might as well have been asking him to sleep with her.

"Are you referring to the one that the class took yesterday," he asked lightly, "Or the one that you failed to show up for last week?"

"The latter."

Placing each hand lightly on the desktop, he eased into his chair, settling himself. Without breaking her gaze— without even blinking— he squared his shoulders and, with as much grace as he had taken to sit down, crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his elbows on the desk, hazel eyes calculating.

"You know well that I do not allow my students to make up tests unless they are absent due to illness or injury. It can hardly be helped if you decide not to grace my class with your presence."

That could have been a crease in her eyebrow then, a tiny change as her eyes narrowed another millimeter, which was more emotion than she usually showed. Compared to the results of his impatience, Severus Snape's biting, derisive manner didn't bother the majority of his students, least of all Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and the rest of the rich Slytherin elitists. What could possibly be putting her on such an edge?

"I know," she replied, voice sending a tremor through him, like the primary waves of an earthquake. "But I was hoping you'd display some of that Slytherin favoritism you're so famous for and lend me the privilege."

Words become rocks in his throat. He swallowed. Hers was a perfect drawl, more distinguished than even his own. It lilted and stung pleasantly, and. . . .

Had that been a jest in her tone?

If so, it was jocularly voluptuous.

In a subtle gesticulation of entreatment, she pressed against his desk, leaning forward. Probably taking his pensive silence for begrudging contemplation, she implored him, voice like a phantom hand passing through a curtain of fog:—

"Please, Professor Snape?"

He couldn't decide in that moment whether or not it would be entirely appropriate to swoon. It was a tempting notion: the creamy rich syllables were all sugar-sweet morsels she wrapped her tongue around. He had only heard this specific edge once before, once when he was eavesdropping on a duet between her and Lucius. It was her richest secret by far. . . .

And she was extending it to him?

Her unusual eyes, crystal blue with secretive brown centers, engulfed him with their determination.

Exhaling, Severus gave a carefully reluctant sigh. With that sigh he let her know full and well that she'd won, and this alone made her face shine with a private, mirthful triumph. In that instant, the voice disappeared and gave way to a subdued but still girlish gush.

"Thank you, Professor—"

"You may come take your test tomorrow evening at 8:00 sharp, Miss Parkinson. If you are so much as a minute late, you can consider your request denied and you will receive a detention for wasting my time. Clear?"

She sobered instantly.

"Of course, Professor," she said nodding.

And with that, he unsympathetically told her to get out of his sight, leaving him alone with his books and empty chairs, with his thoughts and lingering questions.

* * *

**Yeah. So he's fascinated, but also kind of annoyed with her. It just seems to fit. **


	2. Dark Nine

_2. Dark Nine_

It would be a gross fallacy to say that Severus' thoughts the following day revolved around what would happen later that evening. It would be incomparably more accurate to say that he had forgotten about his scheduled session with Miss Parkinson entirely. Understandable, since his day turned out to be quite full. Most of his classes were doing labs that day, and by the time second hour rolled around two cauldrons had been melted, and four students were sent to the hospital wing to be treated for burns, all on top of which the Longbottom nitwit managed to somehow glue his head to his desk and had to be sent to Pomfrey on a trolley. Aside from all this, because there was a block schedule and Miss Parkinson's class had been yesterday, no material apparition showed up to remind him of her impending arrival at 8:00.

Generally, on nights when he knew paper-grading would meander into the wee hours or when he was hit with a bout of insomnia, he took up a practice he developed as a spy: smoking. That he smoked wasn't common knowledge, and most who knew of him would declare with certainty that he more than likely thought the practice disgusting. However, he found that there was nothing more soothing than breathing smoke, filling his lungs with poison whilst participating in these various past-midnight activities.

That night, after noting with a detached kind of displeasure the collectively massive amount of essays he would have to grade, he lit up early. One, he thought, before the dreaded process, another to help him begin, and however many he desired once the gothic-style clock over his door hit twelve.

Thus, he had just finished lighting his second cigarette when she walked in.

Form the way his eyes traveled smoothly from her billowing skirt to her heart-shaped face, one could hardly say that he looked surprised, which indeed he wasn't. True he had forgotten, but (in accordance with the expectations of others and his self-imposed regulations) Severus Snape just didn't _do _"surprised".

If anything, _she _was the one with the look of slight astonishment. Her slack-jaw attention traveled from the cigarette held expertly, lazily between his slant fingers, to his face, cool and collected. He noted this and raised a charcoal-grey eyebrow, which made her subtly parted lips snap themselves back into immaculate form.

"I— um— I'm here to take my test, Professor." He watched her throat as she swallowed.

"Miss Parkinson," he said, memory coming back instantly. Of course. "You are approximately," he glanced at the clock, "fifty seconds late."

She didn't say anything. She merely stared patiently with those fey eyes which, Severus surmised, was markedly worse. When he felt that he could stand it no longer, he took a short, disdainful drag of his cigarette and dropped his right hand to pull out a drawer in the side of his desk. Finding her test, he slapped it onto his desktop.

"You have one hour."

Lowering her eyes, she nodded and fumbled to take up her test.

Severus gave her one last glance as she let her bag drop from her shoulder, she herself slumping into an empty seat placed conveniently in the center of the room three rows from the front. Then he went back to his papers.

There was a solid minute of shuffling coming from her general direction. Then she was back at his desk.

He looked up to find her shifting uncomfortably, normally stoic eyes now quite occupied but unreadable.

"May I borrow some ink?"

It was all he could do to keep from growling, which was strange because she wasn't blatantly annoying him. She wasn't simpering— actually, the half-curious, half-helpless tint to her voice made it the most believably ordinary to date. Still, he had half a mind to snap that it was her own damn fault if she did not come prepared and send her to her dorm room, test undone, with a detention to boot.

He opted for a more agreeable response by holding the growl, grabbing a spare inkwell and setting it on the edge of his desk.

Even though he returned his gaze to the essays, there was no mistaking her lingering presence or the fact that the inkwell remained untouched. He looked up biliously, attempting not to crush the cigarette between his fingers.

"What is it, Miss Parkinson?"

"I didn't know you smoked."

His blood spiked as an icy spear passed briefly through his veins. She was using it again, the voice. The sensual orchestration of vowels and consonants filled him more deeply than the smoke ever could.

"I do, as do many of the other teachers and staff. The wonderful Professor Trelawny especially smokes like a chimney."

"Do you smoke often?"

He was prepared for the spike in his blood this time and let it pass without much tension. "Only when I remember that dying of lung cancer may be a more preferable death compared to the ones that the fates, the war, or my students have in mind for me."

There was no chuckle solicited from her because he didn't intend there to be, though her lips did noticeably curl upwards. Why was he having this conversation with her? He never spoke so candidly or easily to anyone other than Lucius Malfoy, and recently even to him with some reserve.

A thoughtful look came over her face. "Yes. Most people agree that a faster death equals a better death . . . but I think there's something very elegant about killing oneself by smoking. It's a willing ingestion of toxin over time— a kind of leisurely suicide."

He took a long drag, drawling, "How very poetic."

And then he did something that he could never in a million years imagine himself doing. He took the cigarette from his mouth, slipped it loosely between his fingers and offered it to her.

Furthermore, he found himself genuinely surprised when she gave his offer only a moment of genuflection before taking the cigarette from his extended fingers. With the practiced ease of a psych patient downing meds, she brought it to her lips and drew a deep, delicate drag. Severus watched, fascinated.

"Wonderful," she murmured, exhaling perfectly, and he almost cringed pleasantly in his seat. Only in the conversations between her and Lucius had he ever heard her do _that_.

She considered the gaseous substance expelling itself from her mouth and he knew she was noting how it ate up her lungs deliciously, added another thin coat of texture to that delectable voice. He watched her eyes stray, and followed them to the open pack on his desk; they both skimmed the foreign labels.

"_Temnyee Devyat." _Her flawless accent subtracted nothing form the fullness of her voice and she drew again also quite delicately but with a casualness that made her seem coquettish, skanky almost. "So they're Russian," she handed the cigarette back. She smiled. "Excellent."

By taking a millisecond's pause to brush her skin in taking back the half-depleted cigarette, he was able to determine that, were it a centimeter or so closer, his hand could cup hers perfectly. Their curves were nearly perfectly similar, the only difference being the soft feminine slopes of hers.

Perhaps she was having inklings of his thoughts, but there was a glint in her eye that put him ill-at-ease; it even made him ephemerally fancy the notion of slapping her, and then inflicting some like punishment upon himself.

His eyes dropped leisurely to desk level, and he knew that to her his patronizing gaze could be fixing on the untouched inkwell as it could be roving her adolescent body. He eliminated the second option by tapping the well and thrusting it the rest of the way across the desk. His semidangerous intonation of "I believe you have a test to take," sealed the fact. Dutifully, his student picked up the inkwell and wordlessly carried it to her seat.

As she was sitting down, he stubbed the cigarette out. How could he possibly bring his lips to it now? His pulse pounded in his chest, in his head, and pulled another cigarette from the pack.

But why another one? he couldn't help but wonder. He wasn't a chain-smoker, rarely went through more than two at a time . . . he didn't want to give the impression. . . .

He saw clearly, though, that the point was to make it seem as though the one she'd touched had no more value than the rest. This, and the fact that they soothed him enough to help him focus on the mountains of essays with only slightly less interest than usual, resulted in two more cigarettes.

It took her only a half hour to complete the test; ten minutes after his fourth cigarette was stubbed out in the dish, eight after the smoke-cloud he'd conjured began to dissipate, she was at his desk again, holding out her test.

He accepted it from her and told her she would have her grade tomorrow. She nodded, gave an obscure little thanks in a tone that left him dissatisfied as he watched the door close behind her for the second time that wee.

Five minutes after her footsteps faded down the hall, he stood and collected his cigarette dish. Walking around his desk to the wastebin, he made a move as if to throw them out; then paused.

Carefully, without disturbing the rest of the contents, he plucked from the ashes the longest cigarette stub, the very one her lips had touched. He stared at it long and hard, thinking without forming an actual stream of thought. The slender, delicate paper cylinder rolled in his fingertips, was worshiped by his touch. Why should he be so fixed on such a petty thing? It was no more than paper, just a slip of paper with a few poisonous herbs, herbs from which she inhaled a premature death, paper around which she had place her lips. . . .

He recalled her parting locutions, the unremarkably uttered, "Thank you," that had left him hanging so high and dry.

Scowling, he flicked the stub into the trash.

* * *

**"Temnyee Devyat" is Russian for "Dark Nine", thus the title. It doesn't really have anything to do with the story, but it sounded cool, so ...**


	3. Black Cherry

_3. Black Cherry_

He was invited to dinner at the Malfoy's the very next evening. He'd known this to be true even before opening the letter declaring it so, simply because he recognized the origin of the ebony-black owl immediately upon seeing it; also because it didn't swoop down to deliver its message to Draco, who in turn didn't look at all surprised that he was not receiving it.

All this lead up to him carefully opening the letter, skimming it briefly and slipping it without relish into his pocket. It needed no further examination; dinner ,as usual, would begin at an absurdly and fashionably late hour (9:00, on most casual occasions) and probably last until 10:00 or 10:30, whereupon he and Lucius would adjourn in the study/library for wine and cigars. They would then begin to chat about rather boring subjects that would then lead to a deep discussion about most urgent and distressing matters. Then, as conversation dwindled or came to an abrupt halt altogether, he wold stand either graciously or gravely, make his adieus and by-your-leave's, and depart a little before or after midnight. Yes, rather unexciting and predictable.

There was, he supposed as he wandered amongst his students, bent fearfully over their cauldrons, both something pleasing and something undesirable in his monthly formal visits to the Malfoy estate. Pleasing, because it showed that he was in the good graces of and played a severe but aptly agreeable guest to one of the wealthiest, oldest pureblood families in Britain. Undesirable, because while Draco made an interesting study at mealtime and Lucius could carry an entertaining (if sometimes grotesque) conversation when he endeavored and Severus never lied when he commented on the delicious food, he certainly hated getting dressed up and being that agreeable guest. It was boring, made him asphyxiate in his austere attire and reservedly charming manner, under which he kept tightly bottled annoyance. It was especially difficult when talking with Narcissa; obviously quiet by nature, having to play hostess brought out her social awkwardness. Lucius, rather than rescue either Severus or his wife, watched with amusement over his wineglass as Narcissa's ineptness caused her to babble and simper, trying to interest him with subject matter even _she _lost track of.

Muffled chatter in several places on all sides of the classroom broke into his thoughts. Snapping back into the present, his attention spun and zeroed in on the pair chatting most obnoxiously; he found no astonishment in the realization that one of the prattling students was none other than Pansy Parkinson, "whispering" into the ear of another Slytherin boy.

Suddenly overcome by an unfathomable irritation, he barked out a terse, "Quiet!" and stormed up to the front of the class; he picked up a stack of graded tests from his desk, turned around, and glared at them all furiously.

With instructions to collect their test once they heard their name called, he began summoning apprehensive student after apprehensive student up, handing them their tests menacingly.

When _she _walked slowly up to him, she didn't meet his eyes, which was unusual; she merely accepted her test and turned back, walking with equal self-assurance back to her seat.

It was only when she actually sat down that she bothered to read the comment carefully calligraphed in stark red at the top of her paper and proceed to give him a smoldering glare.

He returned her gaze levelly, thinking back to two minutes before class with his grading quill hovering over the freshly written words, glistening like blood on the page:--

_Ms. Parkinson: If you cannot refrain from using that insufferable whine, then I must ask you not to speak at all._

He paused for a moment to openly consider her outraged hostility; then he looked unconcernedly away and called the name of the next student.

* * *

At 8:00 that evening , Severus Snape stepped out of his private quarters clad in stately black dress robes with the traditional white shirt and bow tie, the odor of rue with an undertone of nutmeg only just evident about him. It was the same outfit and cologne that he always wore to the Malfoy's dinners, and while the clothing was no more or less uncomfortable to him than on any other occasion, use and familiarity allowed him to move about effortlessly and silently. He arrived at the edge of the school grounds just inside of fifteen minutes, and as soon as the great iron gates closed behind him, he apparated, vanishing on the spot.

It took him another fifteen minutes to aptly maneuver the various wards and sinister safety measures that were all part of the mansion's ostensible and meticulously thought-out security system; in this manner, he arrived exactly thirty minutes early. This was entirely appropriate, as it would hardly do to make an entrance just when dinner would be starting and it was well-known to him that Lucius required at least twenty minutes to enjoy a cocktail. That evening's pre-meal indulgement turned out to be a rather disgusting concoction that Lucius called an "Orange Tuscan." By Carrying a lively conversation with Lucius on the price and limited quantity of certain poisons, he was able to avoid having any more to do with the drink until Draco, dressed to perfection, stepped into the room, announcing the start of dinner.

Dinner, for Severus, did not bring anything unforeseen. There was no grace said, as any form of religion, however orthodox, never coincided perfectly with Malfoy morals and was therefore obsolete. Lucius, however, did make a customary preliminary toast in Severus' honor, and when Narcissa, though beaming, failed to make any little anecdote of her own, Severus had the fleeting hope that she might keep her banter to a minimum this visit. He was disappointed thoroughly when, on his second bite of the appetizer, she pounced on him by initiating what turned out to be a long string of questions concerning Dumbledore's latest DADA professor. She continued her eager prattle on this and other such subjects well into entre; much to Severus' displeasure, Lucius (as usual) had little interest in helping his socially challenged wife. It was Draco who took part in conversation, Draco who would momentarily distract his mother's attention, Draco whom Severus shot looks of thanks before scowling lightly at Lucius. Throughout the meal, Mr. Malfoy spoke little, merely content to be a spectator, cold grey-blue eyes unusually amused as they darted between the trio of conversationalists. It wasn't until dessert that he actually began taking part. By the time Lucius announced that he and Severus would retire to the den for wine and cigars, the latter man was sorely relieved.

Once in the study, Lucius invited Severus to choose the wine whilst he himself found the cigars. True to form, Severus chose the driest beverage he could find and had just finished pouring two glasses when Lucius approached him, offering a box of rather costly-looking cigarettes.

Even though Lucius had said they were to have cigars, he used the term loosely or in total reference to himself, for he knew well that Severus smoked nothing if not cigarettes. Still, he look he cast towards the ones Lucius held out to him was not one of appeal.

"You know I hate luxury cigarettes."

"I wanted to surprise you."

"And we both know how much I _love _surprises."

Lucius rolled his eyes in exasperation, reminding Severus of the blonde in his school days. "You'll _like _these," he declared.

Much in the same way he liked the Orange Tuscan, no doubt. "I'm sure."

Eyebrows fixing bemusedly, Lucius slid into the nearest chair. He was not backing down completely; after all, no one refused a gift from a Malfoy.

Idly, he watched his comrade sink languidly in the seat on the other side of the coffee table. He gave a peeved sigh.

"Honestly, Severus," he said, setting the box on the glass surface of the coffee table between them. Holding up his cigar, he searched in his vest pocket for a lighter. "What gives you the impression that because a thing is expensive it is therefore bad?"

Seeing Lucius' vain attempts to find a lighter, Severus politely pulled out his own. Lucius took it with tacit thanks, lit up, and handed it back. The first puffs of smoke were instantly heady.

Severus took up his wine, allowing himself a small sip; he didn't appreciate drinking much, but the wine was good, and the sensations it left in his mouth and throat soothed him deeply.

"In answer to your question, _you _do," he replied, grudgingly picking up the box and sliding it open: four packages of pricey luxury cigarettes glared up at him.

Lucius gave a short laugh and looked on with intense interest as Severus lit up. "I resemble that remark. How is it?"

Severus inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs while he contemplated his judgement. He probably wouldn't admit to it, but he was rather pleased. Not only that, but the scent was oddly familiar, and he exhaled with some amount of genuine pleasure.

He chose to ignore the Cheshire grin that Lucius was oh-so-subtly shooting him, removing the cigarette and suspending it between his index and middle fingers for scrutiny, asking casually and uninterestedly:—

"What is the brand?"

"It's Russian," and then Lucius said something in the aforementioned language that made Severus cough and choke, and ask to be pardoned.

Lucius smiled wickedly. "Otherwise called, 'Chernyee Vishnja'— 'Black Cherry'" he continued, watching Severus hack and recover.

Severus coughed once more and snorted upon hearing the alternate name. He held up the cigarette in front of Lucius.

"How expensive are these?"

"Very."

"May I torch them?"

"Please don't."

But it was still Lucius who was handing out self-satisfied grins as Severus brought his hand back down, tapping the ashes out into the smoking dish on the coffee table. "'Black Cherry'," he repeated, and he brought it to his thin lips, inhaling again, this time with some amount of prudence. "Amazing; even without that previous little elucidation, it still has potential to sound pornographic."

"No. I imagine it sounds that way only because _you _are the one smoking it."

After this, more coughing ensued, followed by a small tirade of grumbling from Severus, while Lucius decided ti was time to stop pestering his friend if he wished for the man to stay much longer. He instead turned the topic of conversation to his only son and heir, the pretentious-prat-shaping-up-to be-a-well-rounded-aristocrat that was Draco Malfoy. When Lucius asked for a general analysis of the boy's current state, Severus responded dutifully:

"Let me see: Head Boy this year and captain of Slytherin's Quittich team— but you know about that. As far as classes go, he exceeds in all except arithmacy, where he maintains a B average, though it seems this is due more to a lack of interest than anything else."

"Lazy brat," Lucius mumbled affectionately. "He should pay more attention; if he intends to uphold the Malfoy name, he shall require those skills. They'll be invaluable to him."

"Undoubtably," Severus agreed, "if he weren't already such a good judge of character. He's found quite a niche for himself; the network of allies and associates he has created is astounding, considering his general aloofness."

"Good, good. And what else? Any romantic interests?"

Severus shook his head, taking another sip of wine. "Too many. Your son has made heart-breaking into a sort of whimsical sport."

"That bad, hm?" murmured Lucius, grey-blue eyes shining gleefully.

"Quite. His intention seems to be to bed every single female student before the year is out— though I suspect that this is only to make jealous Ms. Parkinson, with whom he has recently fallen out of favor."

Lucius puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. "Ah, yes. Miss. Parkinson. Pansy." Cigar a few careful inches from his mouth, he gave a high and mighty sigh.

"Pansy," he repeated. "Such an unfortunate name," and Severus was secretly astonished to hear a tinge of actual remorse in Lucius' voice. He took a quick drag from his cigarette. True enough, their conversations rarely ever turned in the direction of the opposite sex (unless, of course, Lucius was complaining about Narcissa), simply because in the case of most there was little to be said. Somehow, though, Severus knew that Lucius would talk about Pansy Parkinson, and th is assurance coupled with his own morbid, self-destructive curiosity spurred him to question:

"Unfortunate? How so?"

Lucius took a moment to consider how best to answer the question, or whether or not to answer at all.

"Quality," Lucius replied at long last. "It says nothing about her quality. She is a fine young woman and the name is a disgrace to her. It is bland, common, deceptive to her true self . . . " he trailed off. Then, eyebrows shifting loftily, he gave Severus a look, a strange mixture of cunning disapproval.

"But I shouldn't have to tell you that," he drawled, implication drizzled delicately over his words.

Through a thick veil of smoke, Severus narrowed his black eyes. For the first time in a long while, he was feeling a certain animosity towards the ordinarily pompous-but-tolerable Lucius. But it was a low blow he'd delivered, to be sure; oh yes, a _fine _time to bring up his eye for quality.

"If the name is deceptive, then it suits her perfectly," Severus intoned, carefully removing his eyes from Lucius' unwavering gaze and drained the last of his wine.

From where he sat, Lucius puffed at his dwindling cigar, tilted his head, and looked at Severus with a curiosity that hampered his cunning air, hemming it to a bearable level.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean that her manner changes drastically depending on the company she finds herself in. She is something of a chameleon among socialites."

"Hm." Lucius stared at the carpet contemplatively, tapping his foot as he took in this new revelation.

Patiently, Severus surveyed his mildly pensive friend. It was a clandestine operation to be certain, but he hoped that by giving Lucius such tidbits of information the other man would, nonchalantly, return the favor. What exactly it was that he wanted to know, he wasn't entirely sure. Rather, he knew the question he would have answered; it was the response itself that he was undecided in his desire for.

Regardless, the ability to choose was taken from him when Lucius' voice, hazy yet sharp and adroit, floated over to him:

"And you've taken special care to observe this, have you?"

He should have been relieved at the obvious tease in his tone; at the very least, should have acted like it. The most he could manage, though, was to sound unmoved and surly. "If you spent as much time around adolescent brats as I do, you would notice such things too."

Severus didn't have to even look to know that a Cheshire grin had spread across Lucius' lips. "So, do you think— ?"

"That was not a recommendation," Severus cut him off sharply. "In any case, as head of Slytherin House, it is my duty to keep a close eye on my more . . . bellicose students. Miss Parkinson runs with a rather pugnacious crowd."

"Does she, now? She always struck me as a model of amenity. But," he said, sighing easily, "I suppose you are right, as usual. As such, I am not surprised that a girl like her has lost what little interest she had in Draco."

Severus felt something shock through his brain like an electric current; his eyes darted over to Lucius suspiciously. It was uncharacteristic of the man to speak such a way about his own flesh and blood— there were, after all, suggestions here that were hardly praising. Perhaps he could toss around such comments about Narcissa, but never his beloved miniature, the son who meant something to Lucius even when nothing else did.

Feigning salty amusement, Severus gave a soft snort and inquired,"What makes you say that?"

Staring unconcernedly at a space on the far wall, Lucius smiled softly and shook his head, blonde locks shifting in the candlelight. The look in his eye was disturbing, the unkind product of cooled greed and coy triumph.

"While faulted with a fancy," he drawled, "or a moment of weakness or two, our young coquette isn't drawn to boys her own age— or even girls, for that matter." Lucius made to seemingly suppress a delicious smile. "I daresay that her taste runs more towards those who are, ah, experienced . . . more refined, if you will. . . ."

"Men."

Lucius cast his grey eyes towards Severus, giving a solemn nod. "Yes. But, more specifically . . . _married _men."

The end of the cigarette flickered, its embers swayed by an unseen wind or perhaps just his breath, which was let out in a shallow exhale, shaken by the disgust worming in his stomach he had not missed the insinuation in Lucius tone, nor the way it hung thick in the air, like a heavy layer of dust or smog. He knew, though, that he didn't need to hear this.

More importantly, he didn't need to hear this in so watered-down a form from Lucius' lips, all the frankness of the sin hidden behind his couth appearance and carefully placed words. He didn't need the truth read to him, stamped across his forehead, put in words on pretty paper. And it didn't take a voyeur to know that the very chair he was sitting in was probably a prop to some ecstatic act. If he sat back, closed his eyes, and listened, he would still hear her voice as it echoed in the room, her moans embedded in the walls; he would smell her sweat, her scent seeped into the furniture— _all _of the furniture. No man in an acceptably sane frame of mind would have the audacity to bring a young woman such as her into this particular study and not make use of every blood scrap of furniture, every wall, every little bit of floor he could get to—

Severus squirmed. All this thinking was making him uncomfortable.

From somewhere far away, Lucius asked:

". . . Do you like your cigarette?"

Severus blinked and cast his eyes to the crumple cigarette in his hand. It had somehow gone out. "Yes," he responded.

Overcome with an immense need to calm down, he ditched the cigarette stub in the dish on the coffee table, then hastily pulled another from the box. To hell with Lucius and that shit-eating smile Severus knew was being sent his way; he brought the new bud to his lighter and ignited the tip, feeling nearly instant gratification upon the first inhale.

Enlivened, Lucius recovered from the rest of his meditative stupor and smirked ferally. "So: my gift was acceptable?"

Deciding to play along and indulge Lucius' teasing tone, Severus threw his cold black eyes at his blonde friend; sneering deliberately, he exhaled through his nose in answer.

In a distinctly crude manner that would have made dead aristocrats roll over in their graves, Lucius soured and made a face that clearly said, "_eww_".

"I hate it when you do that," he vocalized.

Severus took another toke and set his wrist down on the chair's arm, keeping the cigarette suspended. "Why?" he asked, tone both challenging and mocking. "Because it is bad smoking etiquette?"

"No; because I am always forced to picture the insides of your nostrils turning black, much the same way as your lungs. . . ."

And so conversation moved on. By the time Severus left at 12:06 A.M. he had gone through but half a pack of his new luxury cigarettes and two glasses of wine were sitting in his stomach. Pansy Parkinson had not come up again.

* * *

**A/N: there you go. Now i've only got one more chapter. **


	4. Greenhouse

_4. Greenhouse_

The crunch his boots made as they trudged through the freshly-laid snow would have been rather desolate, he knew; it was often so when he endeavored to take these winter strolls. On any given morning in the winter months, the only sound in the courtyard would be the sound of snow and his breathing, both amplified in the quiet dawn. The sharp, steady rhythm gave him a strange kind of peace unachievable by any other means.

And on any other day, this would have been the scene exactly; but, tried and tired from his late supper with the Malfoys, Severus had slept late that morning and the courtyard was not quite as barren and unpopulated as he would have liked, or as it would have been a few hours prior. Of the percentage of the student body that got up before eleven on Saturdays, about an eighth were present and milling around the yard, groups finding their own corners and niches, couples and trios taking strolls much as he was doing. And though seen by most as being a rather formidable figure, the morning had a strange effect upon their opinion of him, and he was not so feared or abhorred that passing students (albeit, all Slytherins) wouldn't acknowledge or greet him in a polite manner:

"Good morning, Professor Snape."

And he, always careful not to sound too jovial (as if he was in any danger of it), returned the greeting in its contracted form: "'Morning, Minter, Miss Bulstrode."

This contact with the students was not, on the whole, overly annoying and was probably doing wonders for his reputation; but, in order to accomplish the peace he required to think, he would have to seek more solitude. Thus, when he had walked the length of the courtyard, he stepped beyond it, continuing his stroll across the still-immaculate, white-blanketed grounds towards the greenhouses by the lake. And he knew that, now alone, he should admire his surroundings: the sound of his boots in the wet, slushy snow, the microscopic flecks of sunlight rebounding off of each unique snowflake.

But, as they did often lately when he found himself alone, his thoughts turned to her.

Softly, he sighed. The fact that Lucius had concluded nothing he himself had not failed to surprise him, though it had dampened his mood a bit, as did his Lucius' failure to make any comments concerning her voice. As the blonde aristocrat had all but professed, he knew a considerable amount about Pansy Parkinson's quality; somehow, he had overlooked that pleasurable weapon of hers.

It was unfair, though, to expect Lucius to understand the significance; Severus also knew that this fascination was uniquely his. Lucius Malfoy, whatever relationship he had with the girl, did not make a study of her; he couldn't know the eerie pleasure of hearing her in the halls, spreading that fake simper like butter, and then appearing in his classroom, receiving him with a voice whose every syllable was coated with decadence.

And again followed the tormenting question: Why? It taunted him assiduously because, unconsciously or otherwise, this alternate sensuous reproduction of ordinary sounds was reserved for the select and secretly favoured. It was her way of insinuating herself to them welcoming them into some dark, tempting web. In the beginning he had only watched, only been a relentless but unseen witness as she subtly seduced the rich, the handsome, the nuptially inclined. He had watched, observed, noted.

Then, lo' and behold, his enchanting specimen had turned on him.

And he still couldn't understand _why_.

The sound of snow under his boots faded in and out and he almost thought he heard another pair falling in step behind him, but he was too absorbed to lend it serious thought, for once again that question was teasing at him. Why? He was a far cry from her usual prey— actually, he fit none of the criteria. He was not especially handsome, his features strict, dark, and pensive; he had a small inheritance, but otherwise lived off a teacher's salary; he had been married once, but no one here knew about that. He was in a category all of his own.

It was this more than anything else that left him completely flabbergasted.

The sound of his own boots faded back in at full volume, and looking up he saw the school's greehouses looming before him, their windows perspiring, snow melting on the window ledges, the plants no more than shadowy shapes against the fogged glass.

He did not head for the main greenhouse directly, but to a clump of trees to the right of it, from where he could overlook the lake. During his walk, the hand in the coat pocket had instinctively curled around the half-finished pack of cigarettes he had started last night; to him, this marked an unconscious wish to smoke, which he was obliged to fulfill. His gaze skated across the lake, golden-orange in the sunlight, whilst he took a cigarette, slipped it to his mouth, and brought both his cupped hand and his lighter to it. He had just taken his first inhale when he heard the unmistakable and familiar crunch of boots behind him; strange, how even before she spoke, there was no doubt in his mind that it was her.

"Professor."

He let the sound flow into his ears, closed his eyes, and savoured it. Keeping aloof, he exhaled leisurely and addressed her without turning.

"Miss Parkinson."

Encouraged by his acknowledgment, however slight, of her presence, she walked up to him, unaware that his keen hearing was tracking carefully every move she made, that he had drawn and held his breath in anticipation of her next words.

He watched her with seeming unconcern as she made her careless footprints in the snow with black leather boots that certainly weren't part of her school uniform. Actually, nothing she was wearing coincided with dress-code. She was clad in her weekend clothes: jeans, a long coat, and a light-blue scarf around her neck to help frame her round face and accent the blue in her eyes. Wintery in herself, she looked perfectly at ease amidst the snow, and stood herself upon a small hill of the stuff three feet or so from him. He could feel her eyes upon him but kept his own on the lake, knowing that his silence would urge her to speak eventually; above all things, it was mystery that humanity found most intriguing and Severus knew how to play his part all too well.

Unable to hold it int any longer, Severus let out a slow breath that shook inaudibly and took his cigarette into his mouth again. Over the ember he saw her delicate nostrils flare slightly, reaching for the scent.

"Those are new."

Nothing quite so exquisite as simplicity, the three vowels rolling beautifully, stark in the crystalline stillness of the winter morning.

"A gift," he explained, "from our mutual friend, Lucius Malfoy."

"Oh."

He regretted the silence that followed; that unimpressive, single-syllable sentiment she left hanging in the glossy morning air didn't help ease him any either. In fact, it made him all the more agitated, building up subliminally as a wave of directionless burgundy rancor that slid around his lungs, killing him in a more casual manner than the cigarette's tar and toxins. And all of this occurred in freeze-frame seconds, under the plain of a smooth face, manifested only in his blood as he felt its pressure rise.

The gilded lake glittered sunrise-yellow and reflected in the cold glossy surface of his eyes. With his vision blinded by the dancing ripples, he could focus more clearly on his hearing: the rummaging of stiff hands going through pockets, cold-numbed fingers fumbling with a silver lighter and:—

"Actually, I don't think you'd consider Luc— Mr. Malfoy and I 'friends'."

He refused to miss a beat. "Oh? And why not, Miss Parkinson?"

A well-timed glanced sliding up to her face revealed a tiny tremor in her cheek— but not even a tremor, really. It was conscious, spurred not by an involuntary muscle spasm, but by thought or emotion or perhaps the way he said, "Miss Parkinson" that triggered what he was hesitant to call a wince.

"Well, Draco and I haven't been on the best of term lately. . . ."

"So your relationship with Lucius depends entirely on your relationship with his son?"

She blanched, and her voice followed suit with her face in becoming blank and curious. "Shouldn't it?"

"Probably."

The next few minutes passed in silence.

It was funny how, with his remarkably keen peripheral vision, he could observe without looking the hesitant manner in which she kept glancing past him where the phantasmal loomed, and back to him every thirty seconds or so. Finally, she gave a tiny, nearly invisible growl; she stubbed out her cigarette on the bark of a nearby tree, and stated the obvious:

"It's cold."

And he wasn't thick enough to miss the suggestion there either.

"You're perfectly right."

He copied her, taking a final drag before flicking the spent toxic bud into the snow.

She didn't wait to make sure he was following her, b ut turned heel all the same, letting her boots plow a distinct path in the sun-kissed water-crystals, leaving a trail for him to follow. She walked up to the greenhouse doors, grabbed the metal handle in her gloved hand and pulled it open; she held it until Severus' hand appeared beside hers to hand before removing her own and stepping inside.

Dutifully, he followed.

* * *

Later, lying naked in bed, he found that most of what happened after that was a blur of sensations. He remembered the sudden change in climate, from dry, cold air to the warm, humid atmosphere of the greenhouse, how he instantly began to sweat inside his long coat. He remembered the smell of plants, soil and chlorophyll leaves, pollen and petals, and the stinging musky scent of a female very close to him. More pearls of banter— and then, like an explosion, his lips being assaulted in such a way that made him ache through his firm apathy; and in turn, this ache made him take her wrists and hold t hem captive, claiming his dominance and pushing her down.

They made love once there in the greenhouse, sweating madly, and then twice more once they returned to the castle to hole up in his private quarters. Her verve was astounding and her hunger engulfed and very nearly eclipsed his own; and all the while, her breathless voice was in his ear calling his name so sweetly, so deliciously. When she climaxed, her scream was pure and euphonic, ambrosia to his ears.

Three bloody times.

Naughtily, he felt his lip curl as his mind surfaced with brief, torrid flashes of intimacy; theirs had left a sultry smell in the room, one that (sadly) he had almost forgotten, one that he hoped couldn't be aired out any time soon.

Beside him there was a soft groan, and Pansy shifted in her sleep, turning in the bed so that her back was facing him, face turned upwards. He marveled at the expression on her features, the utter tranquility, and wondered how long it had been since he was presented with the opportunity to watch someone sleep. She was a peculiar Beauty, a severe Briar Rose; her brow was raised slightly with her superior slumber, lips set in a cruel pout; a lock of short, black, page-boy hair curled upwards into the corner of her mouth and he reached over delicately to brush it away. His hand trailed downwards to her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. His fingers touched upon a protruding milky white shoulder blade, and, as he pushed the green coverlet away, to trace unfathomable figures in the small of her back. She shivered under his touch, but did not wake.

He paused, black eyes fixated on her downy flesh. What was to be accomplished by such caressing? Was it worship? Possibly so, though he was loathe to admit it. He had never had the sense to worship his women before; considering the unstable and technically illegal state of their _affair _(god, how he hated that word), there seemed to be no sense in starting now.

But he continued, despite these thoughts.

A long finger stroked the curve of bone. It was odd; in his vainest thoughts, he presumed that his fascinations would cease in sync with the coming of her silence, as in sleep. But now, having seen for himself everything, he could no longer pretend that her voice was her only endearing quality; he had found many during his impassioned explorations of her body, some of which had the potential to measure up to that first intrigue— that is, if she was willing to let him further explore. . . .

Abruptly, a scowl lit his face, causing him to withdraw his hand, fingers recoiling back into the cavern of his palm. And yes, he had to think, to admit how presumptuous it was of him to think that she would, to even venture towards her considering it.

Even still, as he carefully pulled her short hair from her throat, revealing the warm crook of her neck, his scowl smoothed itself out. His features took on a reflective tone as he deftly reached over her sleeping form and plucked the package of cigarettes from the nightstand, thoughts turning from the caustic to the stark reality of the situation.

He had, he realized, as he fingered the box, plenty of reason to suspect she'd be back. More than that— he could easily place great confidence in the fact that this would happen again and again and again.

Because he had figured it out.

He had figured out what made Pansy Parkinson tick.

And these were the facts:

He was thirty-six. He had none of the charm and ease that most of her older conquests did. He was wealthy by no means and, while strikingly enigmatic, hardly a textbook definition of handsome. He did not have a tittering wife or a faux-fanciful life he wished to escape from. He was nothing like Rudolphus or Lucius. No. But he was still everything the now-sleeping girl desired.

It wasn't wealth that she found interesting. Lucius had been closer when he'd mentioned marriage— though extramarital liaisons themselves weren't the appeal. However, the held a certain charm, one that also belonged to older men. Because, beyond the money, beyond the handsome looks, beyond the sly personalities that women so often looked for lay her primary interest: illegality.

More specifically: unattainability.

Pansy Parkinson most favored those who were _unavailable _to her.

And he . . . he was a perfect candidate.

He was jaded. He was alone but not lonely. He lived a harsh, repetitive existence, anticipating an early death with a twisted kind of hope. He went out of his way to make himself disliked and hated and feared. He was a cynic and closet sensualist. He was a spy and a pessimist, an antagonist and a teacher— _her _teacher. He was _her _Head of House, _her _guardian. And he was cold and humanly evil, tainted and emotionally closed off. He was the absolute _essence _of unavailability.

And for all these reasons, he knew his bed would be kept warm.

* * *

**A/N: Yay. There you have it. Please R&R. I really like this piece (i dunno why; it's almost pedophilic) **


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